Diplomacy and Time Distortion
by Rahvin Dashiva
Summary: A Guard taskforce arrives a thousand years late to a mission to cleanse Horenta, thanks to the Warp. Hilarity ensues!
1. Chapter 1

Diplomacy and Time Distortion

_The time distortion that is so common with warp travel is a source of much consternation within the Imperium, especially the Imperial Guard. It is often the case that a punitive force will be assigned and dispatched to quell a rebellion on a planet, but due to the difference between the passage of time in the immaterium and the materium, they all-too-often arrive years, if not centuries late. The rebellion will often have been stopped by more local forces by this time, and the Guard taskforce will have no need to attack._

_Needless to say, on a warship full of troops that have spent months of their time preparing for a war and working themselves up into the all-too-common battle-frenzy, this news is not always taken well. There are many instances of "misinterpretation of orders", or "communication problems" between planet and ship in these instances. This conveniently allows the Guard to invade the "rebellious" world and prosecute the war they have spent their time preparing for, and lets the ship captain eject a large group of increasingly aggressive soldiers from his ship._

_The inevitable defence or counter-attack from the planet only serves to reinforce the Guard's belief that the world is rebellious, and such a war rarely ends well. If the Guard is defeated, the planet is listed as rebellious again, for destroying a task force of the Imperial Guard. If the Guard are victorious, the planet is subjugated anew, and the anti-imperial elements will gain support, making the planet much more likely to actually rebel again._

_What follows is the account of such a situation, specifically involving the Ramoran 81__st__ and the planet Horenta. _

* * *

In a small system, consisting of barely half-a-dozen planets, only one of which was inhabited, nothing was happening.

Naturally, things did not stay like that for long.

The blackness around the fourth world in the system, which the inhabitants of Horenta, the only inhabitable world, knew as "that big one with the rings", bubbled. This was not a normal thing to do, and, had anyone on Horenta been looking at the space instead of digging, it would have been at least the second largest news story of the day, next to the announcement of the annual pay bonus, or lack thereof. In true Horentan fashion, though, no one paid a piece of space any attention. It wasn't like it was going to go anywhere, they would have said; we can always look another time.

Out of the bubbling, there emerged a shape. It was not shaped like a piece of mineral rock. This was the best description that the Horentans could come up with, rock being the only significant feature of their planet.

Instead, it was vaguely rectangular, with a great, shovel-like prow on the front, and a sputtering tongue of fire emerging from the rear. If the Horentans had possessed a telescope powerful enough, they would have seen that it had thin spires and antennae emerging from its sides, as well as depressions that looked worryingly like weapon batteries.

The shape, which was, in fact, an Imperial Battleship by the name of the _Cleansing Flame_, quickly entered orbit around Horenta.

Actually, this is not entirely true. It took the battleship three days to enter orbit around Horenta. This amount of time was not due to the battleship's speed, but instead to an unfortunately-timed comet, which the battleship was forced to manoeuvre around.

When, finally, the battleship _did_ enter orbit, some of the Horentans noticed it. They did not notice it because of its extremely large presence in low orbit above the clear Horentan sky, but rather because of the incessant, and very loud, vox hails that the battleship broadcast.

The few Horentans that noticed the battleship were, inevitably, not the ones in charge. They were workers at a small vox-broadcast station in Horenta's main city, if a few hundred small stone buildings could be called a city. There ensued a few days of mild panic while the workers tried to get the leaders of Horenta to pay attention the them, and to stop searching for any positive numbers in the annual profit reports.

Eventually, some of the Horentans got sorted out, and a reply was pieced together, asking what the battleship was doing, and if the crew would like to come down and spend some money.

At which point the battleship informed the Horentans that they were all rebellious heretics, and they would be duly cleansed.

The Horentans, naturally, were a little perturbed by this turn of events.


	2. Chapter 2

On the bridge of the _Cleansing Flame_, which, in actual fact, was not shaped at all like a bridge, but rather more like the innards of a factory, Colonel Manfred Sarge stared at the forward viewscreen.

"What have they said in response?" he asked his communications officer, a small man with a toothbrush moustache.

The communications officer looked at his screen for a moment. "Nothing, Sarge-"

"That's _Colonel_ Sarge," interrupted the Colonel.

"Yes Colonel Sarge. The Horentans just keep asking us if we want to buy any rocks."

The Colonel stared at the communications officer. "What about the threat of extermination?!"

"I don't think they even know what extermination means, Sarge. Sorry sir, _Colonel_ Sarge."

"Why d'you think that?" asked the Colonel, shaking his head woefully at the view-screen, and the dull, grey-brown planet on it.

"Their requests have all been comprised of words of two syllables or less. I only recognised it as Imperial Gothic by chance. I was ready to bin it as sensor distortion." The officer looked at his screen again. "There seems to be no indication of heresy though Sar- Colonel Sarge."

The Colonel looked back at the communications officer. "Manuel, they are _obviously_ heretics. We were sent here to deal with heretics, and these are the only people I see around. They _must_ be heretics."

"But Colonel sir…"

"Shut up Manuel. These people are heretics, and we are going to cleanse them. This is a ship full of ten thousand very aggressive Guardsmen. Do you have _any idea_ how much damage they would do if we turned back around now? We wouldn't make it half way!"

"But Colonel sir, what if they aren't-"

"Shut _up_ Manuel! I don't care if they are or not. What matters is that we were told they were, and that means that there can be no official repercussions if we attack them. And I would much prefer to lose a few grubby miners that to have a full-scale mutiny."

The communications officer turned and walked away from Colonel Sarge, weaving between the cogitator banks like a drunk, albeit a stuff-backed and smartly-uniformed one. On his way, the officer turned his head back to the Colonel, and said, "Colonel Sarge, sir. My name is Michael, not Manuel."

The Colonel waved his hand irritably. "Yes yes, whatever, Manuel. Just go and tell the Horentans that we're going to invade them… oh… next Thursday."

Communications Officer Michael Pearks sighed and gave up. His shoulders slumped as he walked over to the main communication console and began to record the message.

* * *

Overseer Gilks sat in his uncomfortable chair in his small office. The message he had just received from the battleship in orbit was particularly worrying. Being cleansed was not exactly high on his list of things to do. In fact, it was pretty much at the bottom, right under "Being slowly eaten alive".

The biggest problem with the message was that Gilks didn't know when "next Thursday" was. Whenever it was, Gilks decided it would probably be before his next payday. In that case, it would probably be best to try to deflect the overly murderous advances of the battleship.

He swivelled his chair – it might not be comfortable, but it _swivelled_ – to face the door, and called, "Oy! Greg! Get that moron off the comm and bring it here!"

There came a series of scrabbles, followed by three loud bangs which made the wall vibrate. Greg's voice floated through the door. "Which, the comm or the moron?"

Gilks sighed. "The comm, Greg. Leave the moron there."

Greg didn't answer, and came through the door a moment later carrying the comm. A large purple bruise was flowering on his cheek. He proffered the comm. "I got you the comm."

"Yes, Greg, I can see." Gilks took the comm and began setting it up on his desk. "You can go now, Greg."

"Where?"

The question took Gilks off-guard. "Uhhh… go and… get some… rocks. Yes. Rocks. I want four thousand rocks outside this building, Greg."

Greg nodded and jogged out of the office. Gilks hoped that the task would keep Greg occupied for a while. Or at least long enough for him to make one call. He finished hooking up the comm, and pressed the button.

"Um, hello? Is this the battleship above us? Yes? Good. I just wanted to say; don't cleanse us please."

The comm crackled for a moment, and Gilks strained to hear it.

"What do you mean, you've _got_ to?"

The comm buzzed again.

"No no," Gilks said, "We've already _had_ that, _ages_ ago. It was about…" He opened his drawer and flipped hurriedly through the big red profit book. "…a thousand years ago. Sorry. You're a bit late. We're not heretics any more; we're miners."

This time, the buzzing was definitely angry.

"No, _honest_! A couple of ships came over from a few systems away and bombed us for a few weeks. Then they invaded us and killed _quite_ a few people, let me tell you. Profits were _particularly_ bad that year."

The comm quietened down for a second, and then sparked back up. It was very angry now.

"What!" shouted Gilks. "We are _not_ grubby! And I don't care _how_ many angry people you've got up there! We don't need another cleansing!"

Gilks listened to the angry comm for another minute or two (not having a clock, it was hard for him to tell), and then grabbed his smashing hammer that he kept in his desk and proceeded to smash the comm in a fit of rage.

He stuck his head out of the door. "Greg?" he called.

Greg appeared instantly. Gilks sighed. There really was no way to get rid of him. "Greg, do we have any guns in the store?"

Greg scratched his head as he thought. "Ummm… no. No, they definitely took all of those away when they cleansed us."

Gilks fought to control the rage building inside him. "Well maybe you could see about making some, Greg? Only, we're going to be cleansed again in six days."

Greg looked shocked. "We're going to be cleansed? Who by?"

Gilks pointed at the massive shape of the battleship hanging above them. "Them, Greg. They've apparently come from Ramora to cleanse us."

Greg squinted at the battleship. "But why?"

"No reason, Greg. They're just late for the last cleansing, and it seems they don't want the trip to be a complete waste. Greg?"

Greg looked back down to Gilks, rubbing his neck where it had cramped. "Yeah?"

"Go make those guns. We need… oh… about sixty thousand," said Gilks, walking back into his office, where he made himself a very strong drink. And then drank it.


	3. Chapter 3

Colonel Sarge looked at the shipboard chronometer in disbelief. It was, apparently, one thousand, four hundred and sixty-three years since the _Cleansing Flame_ had set off. They had _missed_ the cleansing of Horenta. This wasn't going to go down well with command.

He brightened. On the plus side, his commander was probably dead. And his account would be pretty full by now. A thousand years of back-pay. The thought made him weak at the knees.

"Manuel!" he shouted, and the small man appeared reluctantly from behind a bank of cogitators. Sarge had the distinct impression that Manuel had been hiding.

"Yes, Colonel Sarge?" said the communications officer in an exasperated voice.

"See if you can get in touch with Ramoran Command. I want you to do three things;" he began ticking points off on his fingers. "One: check the state of our pay accounts. If there's any less than full pay for a thousand years of service, file a formal complaint. Two: Tell them that the cleansing of Horenta is underway and soon to be completed."

Communications Officer Michael Pearks nodded. "Yes sir. And the third thing?"

Colonel Sarge looked up at him. "What , Manuel? Oh, yes. Just check with them whether Commander Serr is still there. If he is, file a formal complaint."

Michael sighed. "A formal complaint, sir? On what grounds?"

Sarge looked at Michael as if he was stupid. "Grounds of unfairness, of course! I go away for a _thousand_ years and he's still around? That's just not right."

"Yes sir," Michael sighed, and walked resignedly back to the comm station.

Colonel Sarge sat down at his unnecessarily-large command chair, and pressed the big red button built into the arm. A deafening screaming sound, like an incoming mortar shell, blared across the bridge. That was all that the button did, but it was Sarge's favourite button. It helped his get rid of stress when things like this happened.

Sarge sat for a moment and just pressed the button, closing his eyes and imagining that, by some happy coincidence, Commander Serr was on Horenta and he could bomb him and the Horentans (who obviously _were_ heretics, he decided) at the same time.

When he felt sufficiently calm, Sarge pressed the smaller black button next to the red one. This activated the comm built into his chair. "Yes? Is anybody there?" He tapped at the mic a few times. "Hello? Right. This is Colonel Sarge speaking. All Imperial Guard officers, listen up. I know you've all been waiting for this. We have-" He paused for dramatic emphasis. "We have finally arrived in orbit around Horenta. The cleansing will commence at the start of next Thursday. Get ready, all of you."

He released the button, and the comm stopped crackling. Now, at least, the Guardsmen would be a bit less tense.

"Sir!" a cry went up from one of the sensor stations.

Sarge sighed. "What now?"

"There's something coming towards us, Colonel Sarge!"

Sarge stood up. "What is it?"

The sensor officer looked back at his screen. "Uhh… I think it's the moon, sir."

"The moon?!?" shouted Sarge. "Why didn't you notice this before?"

The sensor officer looked down at his feet, shuffling uncomfortably. "Well… you _did_ tell us to focus all sensors on the Heretic planet, sir…" he said in a small voice.

Sarge closed his eyes. Why did all subordinates have to be imbeciles? "Then how did you see this now?"

The sensor officer mumbled a bit.

"Speak up!" ordered Sarge.

"Because I wasn't looking at the planet, Sarge…"

"Right!" said Sarge. "You're fired!"

The sensor officer looked up. "What?! Why?!"

"Lack of initiative and disobeying orders! And," said Sarge, ignoring the first two contradictive statements, "because you called me 'Sarge' not '_Colonel_ Sarge'!"

The sensor officer stormed out of the bridge. It wasn't a particularly effective storm, because he kept bumping into cogitator stations, and having to edge past other people's chairs, but it was a storm nevertheless.

Sarge, feeling very satisfied with himself, pointed at the pilot. "Get us out of the way of that moon, pleas- I mean, now!" he said, almost forgetting his new, authoritative style.

The pilot sighed and began to push the controls in front of her in a complex series that left Sarge feeling dizzy after a few seconds of watching the clicks and lights that followed each press.

Sure enough, though, the ship began to turn. At least, Sarge _thought_ it did.

* * *

That moron was back again.

It had been trying to get at the comm for four days now. Gilks didn't know what it wanted, except to shout barely recognisable things at the orbiting battleship. It seemed to be acting as a salesman for the miners, trying to get the crew of the battleship to buy rocks for extortionate prices.

Gilks picked it up. The Moron was a local mammal on Horenta. It was three feet tall, and vivid purple. Fluorescent blue spots decorated its hide, and a short, stubby tail wagged happily behind it. Its head was shaped exactly like a chair, which Gilks had always found strange. He had no idea how it had learned Imperial Gothic.

He kicked the moron out of the building with a hefty punt, and slammed the rickety door before it could scramble back in.

"Greg!" shouted Gilks.

Greg appeared, yet again, instantly. "What?"

"How are you coming with those guns?" asked Gilks.

Greg's face brightened and a smile split his craggy lips. "They're nearly done!"

Gilks stared in disbelief. There was no way Greg could have made sixty thousand guns from a pile of rocks in seven hours. "Show me, Greg," he said, tentatively.

Greg disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he was grunting loudly and dragging a very large sack. He dumped the sack in front of Gilks. "There they are," he said proudly.

Gilks looked at the sack doubtfully. It was barely large enough to hold a dozen morons, never mind sixty thousand guns. "Take one out of the sack, Greg."

Greg did as he was told, and reached into the sack. There was some rustling and clinking, and Greg came back up with a small piece of rock held in his hand. "Gun, see?"

Gilks fought the urge to punch Greg. "Greg, do you know what a gun is?"

Greg scratched his head. "It's something that chucks a bit of stuff at people, ain't it?"

Gilks sighed. Again. "No Greg. Guns are a lot more complicated that that."

Greg looked puzzled, as if he couldn't figure out what was wrong with his 'guns'. "But I figured that if we just take out the automatic chucking-things-at-people, then the guns can all be made easier. They're only one-shot guns, but they're just as good!"

"Greg, those aren't guns. Those are little pieces of rock that you want us to throw at heavily armed and armoured army-types."

Greg looked even more confused, if that was possible. "But…"

"Greg," said Gilks, "I think I know where there will be some _real_ guns. Go and get some people together and look around in the desert for a few days. Don't come back until you've found some guns. And maybe a bomb."

Greg looked hurt. "You don't like my guns," he accused Gilks.

"No Greg. I don't. That's why I'm sending you out to get some proper ones." Gilks turned away from Greg and lifted the Big Red Profit Book from out of his desk. Greg stomped out of the building, kicking the moron on his way.

Gilks scanned the columns of numbers in the Big Red Book. It had been a long time since they had been positive numbers. Long, red numbers, prefaced by little dashes that seemed to mock Gilks with their squinting stares, followed each other down the page, like a giant, money-consuming conga-line.

Gilks had been struggling for years to get those numbers to turn positive, but people like Greg had always stymied his plans. He flipped back a few pages. His finger traced down a line of green numbers, until it stopped by a shockingly large red one. He tapped the book. There; that was when it all started.

The date by the first red number was one thousand four hundred and sixty-three years ago. That, he recalled, was the year of the cleansing. His overseer's brain began to work, turning the problem over and over.

If, he reasoned, if the first cleansing had turned all the profits to losses, then maybe, just maybe, a second cleansing would then turn all the losses to profits. The thought took hold, and he ruthlessly silenced the little voice in his head that knew about economics, and was protesting loudly at his stupidity.

He looked again at the latest number. It was the length of the page. He covered up the dash, and looked again. He tried to imagine that stupidly large number as cash on his desk. He couldn't.

Gilks had never come across a number he couldn't comprehend before, and the thought excited him immensely. He sat at his desk and thought long and hard about what he would have to do to survive the cleansing, and what he would do with all the money afterwards.

The little voice in his head that knew about economics gave up and died.


	4. Chapter 4

"We've got a message from the hangar bays, Sar- Colonel Sarge," announced Michael.

Colonel Sarge looked irritably at the communications officer. "Manuel, when I want your input, I'll ask for it."

Michael made a very rude gesture behind his back that sent two navigation ensigns into fits of laughter. They were promptly fired.

"But sir, this is very-"

"Shtup!" interrupted Sarge. "I don't want to hear it unless I've asked for it. Didn't you ever hear the saying 'ignorance is bliss'? Well, I'm in dire need of some bliss right now, Manuel, so shut up."

Michael sighed, under his breath so Sarge wouldn't fire him. He turned around and walked back to his station. If the Colonel didn't want to hear vital information then he could just-

"Manuel!"

Michael turned reluctantly around. Sarge was looking at him. "Yes, Colonel?" he said, barely keeping the annoyance from his voice.

"What news is there?"

Michael ground his teeth. He grated, "The Guard units in the lower decks have gone."

"Don't you take that tone of voice with a superior offi- wait, what? What do you mean 'gone'?" exclaimed Sarge.

Gone, sir," said Michael, relishing Sarge's confusion. "They commandeered the landers and took off for the planet. They'll be entering the upper atmosphere by now."

Sarge looked around frantically. "They can't do that! _I'm_ the Colonel! _I_ give the orders!" He scanned the Bridge officers eyes flitting over their stations. "You! Name!" he said to a lanky man long, blonde hair.

The man twisted in his seat. "Ensign Frederick Deere, Colonel Sarge."

"Are you in charge of the guns, Dear?"

"Yes, sir," replied Deere.

Sarge thrust his arm out towards the view-screen. "Shoot down those landers!"

Michael gaped in disbelief. "Those are _our_ landers Sarge! They've got _our_ Guardsmen in!" he exclaimed, leaping forwards and grabbing Sarge's arm.

Sarge threw him off. "Enough, Manuel! I should fire you for that!"

Manuel prepared the route for his Grand Storming Exit in his head.

"But I'm not going to," continued Sarge. "Do you know why?"

Confused, Michael hazarded an answer. "No?"

Sarge looked as if he had been dipped in a bucket of smug. "Because you have a funny name, Manuel. You make me chuckle."

Michael looked as if he had been poleaxed. Actually, he looked more like he had been poleaxed from behind while just getting out of the bath. Terminally confused would be a short way of putting it.

Sarge turned back to the Ensign with the guns. "Are those landers dead yet, Dear?"

The Ensign started, tearing his eyes from the mesmerisingly stupefied expression on Michael's face. "No sir… sorry…"

Sarge went purple. Not literally, of course, but he got so angry that the blood rushing to his head made him both look and feel like a demented World Eater. "Dammit, Dear! When I say fire, you damn well fire! _I'm_ the Colonel! When I say frog, you damn well jump like one! Frog!"

Deere just looked blankly at Sarge, completely lost.

"Dammit, can't you even jump! You're fired!" shouted Sarge, and before Deere could attempt to make a Grand Storming Exit, Sarge kicked him in the nuts. Deere collapsed to the deck, clutching at his knackered knackers and making small, _meeping_ noises.

_That_ certainly felt better than a simple firing, thought Sarge. He would have to try this mindless aggression stuff more often.

"Now!" he shouted, "is there anyone else who can shoot the damned guns?!"

He was met with a series of half-hearted replies, most saying no, and all accompanied by stares at the groaning Deere. Sarge picked one man who he thought had said yes.

"Get over here and shoot down those damn landers! _I'm_ the Colonel! They only attack when _I_ say!"

The Ensign walked uncomfortably over to Deere's vacated station, and began to reluctantly acquire firing solutions.

Sarge walked off the Bridge. As he passed through the door, he tuned his had back and said, "No slacking! I wan those landers dead! I'll be watching from my bedroom- er, office! And don't help Dear. He's fired."

With that, Sarge walked out.


	5. Chapter 5

The filth was particularly fine today, thought Olaf, a nice squelchy coating over the rocks. He scooped some up in his hands. "Hey, Gunther! Check out _this_ filth! I've struck gold today!"

Gunther, a larger (but slightly smellier) man standing three feet away from Olaf, and knee-deep in muck, just grunted. Olaf smirked. Gunther was just smarting because Olaf had got the filth, while Gunther was relegated to simple muck.

And then something happened that made Olaf forget all about his precious filth for at least thirty seconds.

The sky exploded downwards.

Not literally, of course, that would be impossible. But it certainly looked that way to Olaf. A great deluge of flames came down like… well, Olaf really didn't know anything other than filth, muck and rocks, and none of those was an appropriate similie. But it _did_ come down.

And then, inevitably, it landed. Three feet away from Olaf.

"Oy!" said Olaf, "you've squished Gunther!"

Part of the burning thing fired off, spraying muck everywhere, including all over some of Olaf's precious filth, and scoring a deep groove in a lovely rock that Olaf had been planning to admire a bit later on. From the flaming thing stepped the most incredible group of 'people' that Olaf had ever seen.

They were all dressed up in snazzy clothes, glossy black armour (that looked a bit worse-for-wear after that crash) and bright blue fatigues which were equally knackered. Olaf thought they were royalty. After all, all he had was filth.

Olaf fell to his knees. "Oh great and mighty… uh… Mighty Ones! Cleanse your devoted servants!" he announced, and promptly forgot whatever it was that he had been planning to say. In place of speaking, he decided to do a bit of grovelling. You could never go wrong with grovelling.

"What?" The voice was rough, and completely flabbergasted.

"Cleanse us," explained Olaf. "It's sort of tradition round here. Every time we get visitors, they give us a quick cleansing."

The voice was taken aback. "I'm not goin' to bleedin' well cleanse ya! I 'ain'y got the bleedin' time."

"Oh go on," Olaf pleaded. "Just a bit?"

"No!"

"_Pleeease?_"

"Fine!" said the voice, and its owner kicked Olaf in the head.

"That good enough?"

Olaf gave a weak thumbs up from where he lay in the filth. "Much appreciated."

A hand pulled Olaf up. The voice spoke again. "Where the bleedin' 'eck are we?"

"You are on Horenta, oh Mighty Ones," said Olaf, puzzled as to why these great beings would need directions. Especially _after_ they had arrived.

The voice became exasperated. "I bleedin' _know_ that! _Where_ on 'Orenta?"

Olaf was about to answer, when he realised that he didn't actually know. He had worked in the filth for all his life. All he knew was that there was water up the hill and filth and muck at the bottom. "Uhhmmm…" he began.

"Come on! 'Urry the bleedin' 'ell up!"

Another voice interrupted. "Hold up, Caarl. Don't kill him."

Yet another voice spoke up, confusing Olaf completely. "You shut up Bobby! Sergeant Caarl can do what he likes. Especially now that we're off that bloody ship."

After that, a dozen voices started shouting all at once, arguing over whatever it was that Great and Mighty Mighty Ones argued about. Olaf pretended he was back in his filth.

Eventually, the voices stopped, and Olaf was tapped on the shoulder. He looked up into what was quite possibly the ugliest face he had ever seen. He had been prepared to face the Mighty Ones in all their divine beauty, but not _this_. It was _hideous_. It was practically deadly to _look_ at.

When it spoke, the first voice came from its lips, if such horrendous things could be called lips. "What's that light over there?" The ugly man pointed to the left, away from the mountain, and towards a patch of grey among the desert's orange.

Olaf hadn't noticed this. He had been far too busy with his filth to look at things like the _distance_. "Uhh… a bit of grey?"

The ugly man hit him. In the face. With a clenched fist. Holding a gun. Olaf went down, choking and spluttering in the muck.

He picked himself up, saving a piece of particularly nice muck inside his pocket for later. The ugly man was speaking again. "…no, I'll bleedin' well 'it 'im all I bleedin' well want! _I'm_ the bleedin' Sergeant 'ere!" The ugly man, Sergeant Caarl, by the sounds of things, noticed Olaf.

"Oh, you're back up, are ya? Well tell me what the bleedin' 'eck that bit of grey could bleedin' well be!"

Olaf looked at it again. He squinted a bit and made humming and harring noises as though he was studying it. Finally, after he had determined that there really wasn't any good filth on the rock in front of him, he answered. "I suppose it could be a town?"

"Right!" said the ugly Sergeant. "We're off! We're goin' to get back up to that bleedin' ship, and we're goin' to give that bleedin' Colonel what 'e deserves!"

The Mighty Ones left in a rush, trampling around and making a mess of all of Olaf's filth.

* * *

"Commissar on the Bridge!" shouted the nameless Ensign near the door.

"Frak!" shouted Sarge, then immediately regretted it. Commissars had a nasty habit of shooting people who swore at them. "Uh… I mean, good! We can show her our unwavering dedication to the Emperor."

Out of the corner of his mouth, he whispered to Comm officer Michael. "What the hell is _she_ doing still here? I though we got rid of all the Guards!"

Michael glanced at Sarge. "Obviously one got left behind, Colonel Sarge. Maybe one of the squads dumped its commissar out when they took off."

Sarge shot a dirty look at the commissar. "Well why can't we ship the damn woman down to the planet with the rest of them?"

"Because we _shot_ the rest of them. Remember, Sarge?"

"Oh yes," said Sarge. "Damn."

Then the commissar was upon him. She was clad in a black uniform with red trim, and looked not unlike what Sarge imagined a bolter would look like if it were dressed up like a dominatrix. Not a pleasant image.

"Colonel Manfred Sarge," she began, and her voice was thick with some accent. She rolled her r's and her letters were clipped. She sounded like an archetypical 'baddie' from a propaganda vid. "Do you know vhy ze Himperial Guardsmen zat were sent down to ze planet are now all dead?"

Sarge struggled to tear his gaze from her disturbingly fang-like teeth. "Uh… yes… those…" he stammered, and then inspiration struck. "They were all heretics!"

The commissar arched one eyebrow. Sarge had to admire that, He had been trying to do that for ages, but he just ended up looking like a half-blind, shellshocked grox. "All," she said, "ten thousand of zem?"

"Ah, yes," said Sarge. He crossed his fingers behind his back. "Definitely."

The commissar, much to Sarge's surprise, nodded her head and turned away. "I vill haff to make amends, Colonel Sarge. Ze disloyaly of my Regiment iz a great shame. Vhat vould you haff me do?"

Sarge cast around briefly. "Uh… just go down to Horenta and make sure none of them escaped, will you? We don't want any _more_ dirty heretics running around down there." That should be a good way to get rd of her for a while.

"Of course," she said, and walked stiffly from the Bridge.

Sarge couldn't believe his luck. That damned commissar would be gone for _ages_. He was especially pleased with his little lie about the Guardsmen. That, he thought, was _very_ clever, telling her they were heretics like that.

"Uh, Sarge?" said Michael.

"That's _Colonel_ Sarge," replied Sarge automatically. "What, Manuel?"

"One of the landers survived."

Sarge exploded. Not literally, of course, but _metaphorically_. He didn't turn into a cloud of rapidly expanding gas, but instead, he turned into a Colonel of rapidly expanding anger. Sort of.

"What!?!?" he screamed, with an excess of punctuation. "How the hell did you miss one!?"

Michael winced. "I didn't shoot them, Colonel Sarge. It was Derek." He pointed at the short, bearded Ensign who had taken over Deere's job. Derek glared back.

Sarge walked angrily over to Derek. "Ensign Derek! Why the bloody hell did you not shoot those damn landers?"

Derek scratched his head, trying to look nonchalant. "Uh… I did shoot them, Colonel Sarge. One must have just crashed while it died."

"Not good enough!" shouted Sarge. "I said to _kill_ them, not make them crash!"

Derek suppressed an insouciant smirk. "Well, actually… you said to _shoot them down_, Sarg - Colonel Sarge. Which is what I did. Right down to the ground."

Sarge got even angrier, until he looked like a cross between a Khorne Berzerker and a Commissar. "Don't be smart with me, Derek! You're fire – no, wait! You're demoted to boot shiner!"

Derek, who had been planning the route for his Grand Storming Exit, looked up abruptly. Sarge suppressed a laugh at Derek's expression. "What!? Boot shiner!?"

Sarge did laugh this time. "Yes, Derek, Boot shiner! Now get below decks! You can start with the maintenance crew. I want their boots to be spotless."

Derek slumped off the Bridge, devastated that he wouldn't get to Storm out. He had been reduced to a mere Dejected Slump.

Sarge was _immensely_ pleased with himself, so much so that he forgot to be angry for a whole minute. He was really getting to like this command stuff.

* * *

Gilks was tremendously surprised when the door of his office suddenly decided to fly into the wall.

It wasn't the sort of thing doors tended to do, really, thought Gilks as he pondered the quivering bit of wood propped up against the wall. They usually restrained themselves to opening and closing, with maybe a bit of creaking and sticking when it got to winter. Gilks wondered what had made the door feel so bad it had to fly into a wall like that.

And then the answer walked through the newly created hole. On the whole, Gilks would have preferred ignorance.

It was a group of half a dozen soldiers, by the looks of them. They were all dressed up in some sort of off-word finery, shiny black armour (with quite a lot of scratches, but Gilks could ignore that) and blue fatigues (also with some damage – big burn holes and tears, but Gilks really didn't care about little niggles like those) that was all much better than even the finest rocks.

Their leader, an _astonishingly_ ugly man with a face like the back end of a moron, stepped angrily towards Gilks. "Oy! Are you the bleedin' leader around 'ere?"

After a moment of frantic deliberation, Gilks answered. "Errr… nope. Definitely not. No siree, we sell rocks here."

The ugly man looked askance at Gilks. "Yeah, right. Now, if you 'aint the bleedin' leader, who is?"

Gilks looked around desperately. His eyes finally lighted on the small window, through which he could see the moron. The stupid creature looked like it was bust attempting to eat a rock. That, in itself, would have been tolerable, but the rock in question was more that fifteen times the size of the moron.

"There," he said, pointing resolutely at the moron. "He's the leader."

The ugly man looked sceptical. "What, that ugly little frakker? 'E's can't be the leader, 'e can't. 'Is 'ead's shaped like a bleedin' chair, for a bleedin' start!"

Gilks held out his hands. "No, honest, he is. He might look like a… how did you put it... 'little frakker', but he's deadly smart."

The ugly man shook his head. "This place is just bleedin' _mad_…" he said under his breath.

The ugly man signalled to his companions, and they bustled out of Gilks' office. They reappeared outside the window a minute later, and began trying to start some sort of argument with the moron. They gave up after a minute or two.

Gilks grinned. That damned moron could even defeat strange off-word types. His grin faded when the ugly one pulled out a chunky pistol and shot the moron in the head. Bits of half-chewed rock and half-cooked brain splattered all over the off-worlders, making them jump about angrily, complaining at the ugly one.

Gilks frowned. _That_ certainly wasn't supposed to happen.


End file.
